The Girl on Fire
by Wynter's Fall
Summary: "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you — the tributes of District Twelve!" I washed the taste of Nightlock out of my mouth, and turned around. That's when Peeta collapsed, and died in my arms.


**A/N: So Welcome to my story, just to let you know it's AU but not so much AU as if one thing changed in the story and well that one thing would have such a massive effect that it would change the outline of the trilogy completely, the first two thousand words are all Suzanne Collins and after I put my own spin on things, I hope you enjoy! **

"_My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone."_

_Edgar Allen Poe_

My muscles are strained so tightly, they feel they might snap at any moment. My teeth clenched to the breaking point. The mutts go silent and the only thing I can hear is the blood pounding in my good ear. Peeta's lips are turning blue. If I don't do something quickly, he'll die of asphyxiation and then I'll have lost him and Cato will probably use his body as a weapon against me. In fact, I'm sure this is Cato's plan because while he's stopped laughing, his lips are set in a triumphant smile.

As if in a last-ditch effort, Peeta raises his fingers, dripping with blood from his leg, up to Cato's arm. Instead of trying to wrestle his way free, his forefinger veers off and makes a deliberate X on the back of Cato's hand. Cato realizes what it means exactly one second after I do. I can tell by the way the smile drops from his lips. But it's one second too late because, by that time, my arrow is piercing his hand.

He cries out and reflexively releases Peeta who slams back against him. For a horrible moment, I think they're both going over. I dive forward just catching hold of Peeta as Cato loses his footing on the blood-slick horn and plummets to the ground.

We hear him hit, the air leaving his body on impact, and then the mutts attack him. Peeta and I hold on to each other, waiting for the cannon, waiting for the competition to finish, waiting to be released. But it doesn't happen. Not yet. Because this is the climax of the Hunger Games, and the audience expects a show.

I don't watch, but I can hear the snarls, the growls, the howls of pain from both human and beast as Cato takes on the mutt pack. I can't understand how he can be surviving until I remember the body armor protecting him from ankle to neck and I realize what a long night this could be. Cato must have a knife or sword or something, too, something he had hidden in his clothes, because on occasion there's the death scream of a mutt or the sound of metal on metal as the blade collides with the golden horn. The combat moves around the side of the Cornucopia, and I know Cato must be attempting the one maneuver that could save hislife — to make his way back around to the tail of the horn and rejoin us.

But in the end, despite his remarkable strength and skill, he is simply overpowered.

I don't know how long it has been, maybe an hour or so, when Cato hits the ground and we hear the mutts dragging him, dragging him back into the Cornucopia. Now they'll finish him off, I think. But there's still no cannon.

Night falls and the anthem plays and there's no picture of Cato in the sky, only the faint moans coming through the metal beneath us. The icy air blowing across the plain reminds me that the Games are not over and may not be for who knows how long, and there is still no guarantee of victory.

I turn my attention to Peeta and discover his leg is bleeding as badly as ever. All our supplies, our packs, remain down by the lake where we abandoned them when we fled from the mutts. I have no bandage, nothing to staunch the flow of blood from his calf. Although I'm shaking in the biting wind, I rip off my jacket, remove my shirt, and zip back into the jacket as swiftly as possible. That brief exposure sets my teeth chattering beyond control.

Peeta's face is gray in the pale moonlight. I make him lie down before I probe his wound. Warm, slippery blood runs over my fingers. A bandage will not be enough. I've seen my mother tie a tourniquet a handful of times and try to replicate it. I cut free a sleeve from my shirt, wrap it twice around his leg just under his knee, and tie a half knot. I don't have a stick, so I take my remaining arrow and insert it in the knot, twisting it as tightly as I dare. It's risky business — Peeta may end up losing his leg — but when I weigh this against him losing his life, what alternative do I have? I bandage the wound in the rest of my shirt and lay down with him.

"Don't go to sleep," I tell him. I'm not sure if this is exactly medical protocol, but I'm terrified that if he drifts off he'll never wake again.

"Are you cold?" he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he fastens it around me. It's a bit warmer, sharing our body heat inside my double layer of jackets, but the night is young. The temperature will continue to drop.

Even now I can feel the Cornucopia, which burned so when I first climbed it, slowly turning to ice. "Cato may win this thing yet," I whisper to Peeta.

"Don't you believe it," he says, pulling up my hood, but he's shaking harder than I am.

The next hours are the worst in my life, which if you think about it, is saying something. The cold would be torture enough, but the real nightmare is listening to Cato, moaning, begging, and finally just whimpering as the mutts work away at him. After a very short time, I don't care who he is or what he's done, all I want is for his suffering to end.

"Why don't they just kill him?" I ask Peeta.

"You know why," he says, and pulls me closer to him.

And I do. No viewer could turn away from the show now. From the Gamemakers' point of view, this is the final word in entertainment.

It goes on and on and on and eventually completely consumes my mind, blocking out memories and hopes of tomorrow, erasing everything but the present, which I begin to believe will never change. There will never be anything but cold and fear and the agonized sounds of the boy dying in the horn.

Peeta begins to doze off now, and each time he does, I find myself yelling his name louder and louder because if he goes and dies on me now, I know I'll go completely insane. He's fighting it, probably more for me than for him, and it's hard because unconsciousness would be its own form of escape. But the adrenaline pumping through my body would never allow me to follow him, so I can't let him go. I just can't.

The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Peeta begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again.

Finally, I hear him whisper that the sun is rising. I open my eyes and find the stars fading in the pale light of dawn. I can see, too, how bloodless Peeta's face has become. How little time he has left. And I know I have to get him back to the Capitol. Still, no cannon has fired. I press my good ear against the horn and can just make out Cato's voice.

"I think he's closer now. Katniss, can you shoot him?" Peeta asks.

If he's near the mouth, I may be able to take him out. It would be an act of mercy at this point.

"My last arrow's in your tourniquet," I say.

"Make it count," says Peeta, unzipping his jacket, letting me loose.

So I free the arrow, tying the tourniquet back as tightly as my frozen fingers can manage. I rub my hands together, trying to regain circulation. When I crawl to the lip of the horn and hang over the edge, I feel Peeta's hands grip me for support.

It takes a few moments to find Cato in the dim light, in the blood.

Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he's trying to say is please.

Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into his skull. Peeta pulls me back up, bow in hand, quiver empty.

"Did you get him?" he whispers.

The cannon fires in answer.

"Then we won, Katniss," he says hollowly.

"Hurray for us," I get out, but there's no joy of victory in my voice.

A hole opens in the plain and as if on cue, the remaining mutts bound into it, disappearing as the earth closes above them. We wait, for the hovercraft to take Cato's remains, for the trumpets of victory that should follow, but nothing happens.

"Hey!" I shout into air. "What's going on?" The only response is the chatter of waking birds.

"Maybe it's the body. Maybe we have to move away from it," says Peeta.

I try to remember. Do you have to distance yourself from the dead tribute on the final kill? My brain is too muddled to be sure, but what else could be the reason for the delay?

"Okay. Think you could make it to the lake?" I ask.

"Think I better try," says Peeta. We inch down to the tail of the horn and fall to the ground. If the stiffness in my limbs is this bad, how can Peeta even move? I rise first, swinging and bending my arms and legs until I think I can help him up. Somehow, we make it back to the lake. I scoop up a handful of the cold water for Peeta and bring a second to my lips. A mockingjay gives the long, low whistle, and tears of relief fill my eyes as the hovercraft appears and takes Cato's body away. Now they will take us. Now we can go home.

But again there's no response. "What are they waiting for?" says Peeta weakly. Between the loss of the tourniquet and the effort it took to get to the lake, his wound has opened up again.

"I don't know," I say. Whatever the holdup is, I can't watch him lose any more blood. I get up to find a stick but almost immediately come across the arrow that bounced off Cato's body armor. It will do as well as the other arrow. As I stoop to pick it up, Claudius Templesmith's voice booms into the arena.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed," he says. "Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."

There's a small burst of static and then nothing more. I stare at Peeta in disbelief as the truth sinks in. They never intended to let us both live. This has all been devised by the Gamemakers to guarantee the most dramatic showdown in history. And like a fool, I bought into it.

"If you think about it, it's not that surprising," he says softly. I watch as he painfully makes it to his feet. Then he's moving toward me, as if in slow motion, his hand is pulling the knife from his belt — Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart. Peeta raises his eyebrows and I see the knife has already left his hand on its way to the lake where it splashes in the water. I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame.

"No," he says. "Do it." Peeta limps toward me and thrusts the weapons back in my hands.

"I can't, I say. "I won't."

"Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don't want to die like Cato," he says.

"Then you shoot me," I say furiously, shoving the weapons back at him. "You shoot me and go home and live with it!" And as I say it, I know death right here, right now would be the easier of the two.

"You know I can't," Peeta says, discarding the weapons. "Fine, I'll go first anyway." He leans down and rips the bandage off his leg, eliminating the final barrier between his blood and the earth.

"No, you can't kill yourself," I say. I'm on my knees, desperately plastering the bandage back onto his wound.

"Katniss," he says. "It's what I want."

"You're not leaving me here alone," I say. Because if he dies, I'll never go home, not really. I'll spend the rest of my life in this arena trying to think my way out.

"Listen," he says pulling me to my feet. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me." And he goes on about how he loves me, what life would be without me but I've stopped listening because his previous words are trapped in my head, thrashing desperately around.

We both know they have to have a victor.

Yes, they have to have a victor. Without a victor, the whole thing would blow up in the Gamemakers' faces. They'd have failed the Capitol. Might possibly even be executed, slowly and painfully while the cameras broadcast it to every screen in the country. If Peeta and I were both to die, or they thought we were . . .

My fingers fumble with the pouch on my belt, freeing it. Peeta sees it

and his hand clamps on my wrist. "No, I won't let you."

"Trust me," I whisper. He holds my gaze for a long moment then lets me go. I loosen the top of the pouch and pour a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm. Then I fill my own. "On the count of three?"

Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. "The count of three," he says.

We stand, our backs pressed together, our empty hands locked tight.

"Hold them out. I want everyone to see," he says.

I spread out my fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun. I give Peeta's hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we begin counting. "One." Maybe I'm wrong. "Two." Maybe they don't care if we both die. "Three!" It's too late to change my mind. I lift my hand to my mouth, taking one last look at the world. The berries have just passed my lips when the trumpets begin to blare.

The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you — the tributes of District Twelve!"

Straight away I throw up the lethal concoction, trying to get the berries out of my mouth, horrified that I may have swallowed one or two. I run over to the water to get the taste out of my mouth as Peeta follows me, removing any and all trace of the berries from our system. Ten seconds pass and I'm hugging him on the grass, laughing in shock. We'd made it, we'd made it out of here alive, and with each other. It was almost impossible to believe, not that just one victor had made it out from District Twelve but that there were two.

The sounds of the hovercraft as it comes to collect us can be heard as we move away from the trees into a clearing. As I support Peeta and wave for it to pick us up, it happens.

He coughs, once, twice. And then he throws up, a vomit of blood emerging from his system as he collapses to the ground.

I scream. "No! Peeta!" As I kneel down next to him taking his hand immediately.

_It can't end like this can it?_ I think as I hold his hand as he writhes in agony, the poison already shutting down his systems.

I remember my father's words, the same words I'd told him. _"These are nightlock Katniss, you'll be dead before they reach your stomach."_ And all I can do is look into his eyes as he looks at me pleading for mercy, and as much as I want to I can't look away. Because to do that would let him know that this was all a lie, it would let Panem know that as well.

But I couldn't care about the rest of the world, if I let him know that I didn't love him, then what a worse death could one die? Both in pain and heart-broken? Hell, did I love him? I wasn't sure but these last few days had been as close as I would probably ever get to the feeling.

I can't, no I refuse to that and the tears stream down my face, as he finally passes away, and the cannon fires. I lay there, I don't know how long for, but eventually Claudius Templesmiths voice booms over the microphone

"Ahem… ladies and gentlemen I have some new news, the new victor of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, is Katniss Everdeen!"

The Hovercraft finally comes over and begins to take us both up. I look at his corpse again as I hold it tight, I lean over and kiss his lips one last time, and then we disappear, and the games are finally over.

XxX

I wake up in a room, drowsy, confused. The slight throbbing in my left ear alerts me to the fact that I can hear again, a small comfort I suppose as the memories come flashing back. The sedatives do their job and put me straight back under the moment my heart rate rises. The one thing they don't count on though is the dreams. And each time they put me under I see their faces.

Rue, Peeta, Cato, Marvel and Glimmer, all the kills I claimed and all the ones who died because of me. I wake up screaming and straight away I'm put under again, the only thing I'm ever aware of is the pair of feet lying on the end of my bed that signal Haymitch's presence, a small comfort, that I greatly appreciate.

Eventually I'm awake, and not immediately thrust under back under. The scars I accumulated are removed, except for the burn on my leg, one that barely anyone would ever see, certainly not in the lights of the Capitol at any rate. I groan as the light hits me and I try to sit up in my bed. Only to find that I've been restrained. Thankfully, Haymitch isn't in a drunken stupor and releases the binds which have me tied to the bed. An Avox then enters through a hole in the wall, the same Avox that served us in the facility, the same Avox who is on the list of people I failed to save.

She lays down the food and smiles at me, as though trying to let me know she's happy I'm alive. If only I could feel the same way.

How could I go back, face the baker and his wife? How could I go back there and look them in the eye and tell them I was sorry that I couldn't bring Peeta home with me. Now I knew why Haymitch had turned to drink, for what other way was there to cope with the swirling torrent of guilt which consumed you? That ripped out your insides, cutting as sharply as a sword, a sword that never left your body, and left you lying there as a miserable wreck on the ground as it twisted itself through, determined to cause as much pain as possible.

I eat silently, we don't say anything to each other. My stomach feels almost non-existent, I can barely stomach a bite yet I keep eating, it must have been days since my last meal.

Eventually Haymitch breaks the silence. "They're not happy." He says calmly as he takes a drink from his glass.

"Well I'm not exactly a bundle of joy am I?" I growl as I shovel the food into my mouth, as though I'm in a race to get it over and done with, regardless of how good it tastes.

He grabs my arm and I look at him, finally taking notice of how serious he is, and then realizing how serious the situation is.

"They took the berries as an act of rebellion, Snow isn't going to take it lying down." Haymitch hissed at me. "Family, friends, he doesn't care he's going to target it all, you made the Capitol a laughing stock, the only way you could have embarrassed them more is if Peeta had walked out of there with you."

"Why would they target my family, why not just me?" I countered, but then as I said it the reasons slowly came to me.

I had become the darling of the Capitol, one of the tragic, star-crossed lovers of District Twleve. If Snow touched me, he could very well see a rebellion from his own people, hell if he laid a finger on me after what I'd done the districts would be in uproar. Cutting down the exact same person who had shamed him would be the exact opposite of what Snow wanted, which was the silence and servitude of the districts.

"Look sweetheart, I know you want to grieve. Hell I do as well, he was a great kid, one of the best guys I've ever known. Problem is, here you don't get to." Haymitch said as he gestured around him. "The moment you thought of those berries was the moment you laid down the arms of a rebellion, which will take a hell of a lot of manoeuvring to stop. And that manoeuvring has to come from both ends, because we sure as hell aren't ready to rebel. It would be a massacre."

I digested what he told me, slowly, carefully. As much as I wanted to just sit there and cry, wait for an end to make itself available, the more I realized I needed to stay alive, and do whatever it took to bring Snow down, whether it was in a year, or a decade.

Because he had killed Peeta, he was the reason he was dead and he needed to pay. He had been the only reason I got through those games, helping me escape the careers, giving me the time to set a trap after I had been captured. Hell he'd defeated Foxface at a time when I had completely forgotten about her. The only reason I was still here was a combination of luck, skill and the one constant that had always been a part of my time in the arena. Peeta Mellark.

In that moment I put aside my fears, tried to bury the aching guilt that was threatening to consume me and replaced it with an emotion that was twice as deadly and just as destructive.

Revenge.

"What do I need to do?" I asked, and Haymitch's lips curled into a smile.

**A/N, that's it for now, I had this sudden spurt after watching Catching Fire and yeah, I hope you enjoyed it, I had trouble putting the ending together and need to work on a few things but hopefully it picks up in the near future. I'm a wee bit rusty at the moment haha. Chapters will be between 4.5k and 5k normally, cya later. **


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